continued from …or how not to holiday.
“What’s what?” Jill asked, looking in the direction the children were pointing, “I don’t see anything.”
“Angels, Mummy, angels,” Juliette shouted, excitedly.
I poked my head out of the car window and looked up. I also saw nothing. Humouring the kids, Jill said, “I expect they are special angels that only children can see. Can you see anything, Daddy?”
“Not a thing, Mummy,” I replied.
“There you go,” Jill said, “just as I thought. Special angels.”
“But why are they here, Mummy,” Jeremy asked.
“I expect they’re your guardian angels,” Jill replied, “here to look after you.”
“But you and Daddy look after us,” Juliette protested, “we don’t need angels, too, do we?”
“Can we go and play, Mummy?” Jeremy asked, before Jill could answer.
“Okay,” I replied, “but stay close and don’t play on the road.”
The kids ran off happily and we heard their shrieks and laughter from just around the corner.
“Will they be okay?” Jill asked.
“I’ll go and check on them in a while, and besides, they have their guardian angels looking after them,” I said with a barely suppressed chuckle.
As I said that, I heard what sounded like a large group of motor-cycles roaring up the hill towards us.
I shouted to the children, “Keep off the road, mind, there’s something coming up the hill.”
“We will, Daddy,” Jeremy replied, speaking for them both.
Their excited chatter and laughter continued as the large group of motor-cycles climbed the hill and started to appear from around the corner behind us. I got out of the car and joined Jill in giving them a cheery wave. The leather-clad bikers stopped their machines, and four or five from the front of the group dismounted. The one I assumed to be their leader, a tall man in his thirties, bordering on obese and with a large vertical scar on one cheek, approached us.
“On holiday?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied, “half way through the first of two weeks here. Lovely island, we’re really enjoying it.”
“I didn’t ask for your life history,” he scowled, “simple yes would have been enough.”
“Sorry,” I said.
“Shaddap,” he screamed. “We’ve taken a shine to your car, haven’t we, lads?” he said, turning to his companions, who all nodded and grunted, “and when we take a shine to something, what do you suppose we do?”
“Oh, don’t tell me, let me guess” Jill said, a note of sarcasm in her voice, “would I be right in thinking you take it?”
“That’s right, pretty lady, we take it. And that’s just what we’re going to do now. Isn’t that right, lads?” More nods and grunts.
“Well, good luck with that; it doesn’t work,” she added through gritted teeth, ignoring my mouthed ‘no’. “Why do you suppose we’re stuck here in the middle of the afternoon, miles from anywhere?”
“I said shaddap,” the gang leader said, producing a handgun from his ample jacket.
Despite more protestations from me, Jill mocked, “Oh, puh-lease. Don’t tell me you’re prepared to kill us for this heap of scrap metal.”
“No,” he replied, “but I will kill you to stop you talking.” With that, he pulled the trigger, and Jill fell to the ground with a bullet-hole in the middle of her forehead.
“What the hell?” I screamed, rushing to where Jill lay. I felt her neck for her pulse. There was none. I put my ear to her mouth, there was no breath.
“Now, then,” her killer said, “any objections if we take the car?”
“What sort of people are you?” I asked.
In reply, I saw that his gun was pointed at me. For the briefest of moments, I swear I saw a flash of light from its muzzle, and then—
I wrote this in response to Kreative Kue 30, issued on this site earlier this week.